


We Can Sail Without The Wind In This Town

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Countries Using Human Names, Hurt, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7009516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe another day he’ll learn to forgive and forget, but war leaves its scars in cruel places.</p><p>---</p><p>In which Japan questions where his allies were when it truly mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Sail Without The Wind In This Town

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to trade art for fics, because I'm a sucker for art, and my friend is a sucker for fics. This is only one of five that I have in store for them.
> 
> Who doesn't love Axis Poly? And Angst?
> 
> Essentially, the nations all feel the pain of their countries. For example: If the people are suffering with a bad economy, usually the nation will get sick. If there is an attack on their land, scars will end up on the nation's body.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy.

Whether it was to avenge his allies who had surrendered months (or years, in Italy’s case) before, or to prove himself as strong and powerful to the country that he nurtured, the country that was _dying_ , Japan had made a grave mistake in refusing to give in to the throes of war, and suffered for it.

August 6th, 1945. 8:14 am. That was the first punishment.

As soon as the bomb landed, tens of thousands people were murdered immediately, incarcerated by the force of America’s “Little Boy”. It came as a sudden shot to the stomach; Japan reeled in agony, the effect on his land burning all across his torso. Scorching hot pain seared through his body--incomprehensible. Crying out was useless. It was as if the force of America’s blow had knocked every single bone in his being out of place and punctured his lungs, rendering him incapable of a sound. Blood seeped through the fabric of his shirt, tears of fear and anger and  _ torture _ spilling out from his eyes like the organs of his people were spilling from their bodies. And he could  _ feel _ it, God, he could feel  _ them _ , their confusion, their screaming. The families being physically torn apart piece by piece. The mothers. The  _ children _ .

Perhaps he hadn’t responded quickly enough to the one he once called a friend. Three days later, lying in bed and screaming and  _ God dammit where the fuck is the medicine, it hurts, they’re still dying, they’re still dying!  _ came the next attack, this time on his back, and this time surrounded by frenzied nurses who were frantically looking for a solution to his previous injury. The “Fat Man,” it was called. It hit him so suddenly in the spine that when he thrashed in pain, his legs did not thrash with him, twitching, sure, as a result of the blow, but lying pathetic on the hospital bed. 

That’s what the death of a nation felt like.

 

He was unable to stand on his own.

Feeling was slowly but surely being restored to his legs as a result of the care he started receiving from the United States. Breathing was becoming easier with every passing day, though the more that ‘survivors’ were taken by death for later effects of radiation, the worse that he felt. The sound of women crying faded in and out of Japan’s hearing, sometimes in the middle of a conversation, and sometimes while lying in bed at night (on his side, of course, to avoid agitating his wounds). Sleep was a luxury he could rarely obtain these days, his mind swimming with questions. Betrayal is what he felt. 

After the liberation of the camps in Europe, Japan knew that Germany had to have been feeling better. Much,  _ much  _ better. The camps were like cancer, killing the population of his people, of other people, a true perpetrator of evil. Once the prisoners, undesirable Jews alike, were freed, Germany felt a sense of ease. So where was he when Japan fell to his knees after the bombing of Hiroshima? Germany wasn’t fighting anymore. He wasn’t  _ suffering _ .

And Italy--he had had some free time on his filthy hands after he surrendered to the Allies. Was he beside Japan when he lost the ability to move his lower half? Or was he spending his time with Germany, concerned only for the well-being of their immediate neighbors? Was it Japan’s fault for being unreachable?

Where were they now?

 

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Germany announced, slamming his hands down loudly on the mahogany table before him. Every nation in the room was silent, except for America who was still snickering at the post-it-note drawing that Japan slid to him moments prior. “We go counterclockwise around the table. Each country has no more than nine minutes to stand and state their business. We begin with Russia.”

Russia, who had been throwing dirty glares at America the entirety of the meeting, graciously thanked Germany and stood.

Japan sat quietly, nodded politely to the words of his fellow nations. One by one they slid their chairs out from their tables, stated their qualms with the world, and sat back down in their respective seats. Jumping from one country to another was a little nonsensical--Russia had stated his displeasure with America during this time of the war, and Mexico, who had been sitting next to Russia, completely changed the subject before it had any chance to marinate with the countries. But who was Japan to state his issues with Germany’s  _ wonderful  _ means of organization? Leave it to Germany to let everyone speak for a full nine minutes and then force them to shut the fuck up forever instead of actually discussing the problem.

From Mexico it went to Argentina, then to Switzerland, and to the newly formed North and South Korea. Both of them had a few things to say, not only about each other but also about Japan, who winced at every angrily spat word in his direction. America turned to him and offered an apologetic smile.  _ Sorry, bud, _ it said. Japan wrote down another joke on a sticky note and passed it to the States in response.

Italy, who was up next, did not care that he was interrupted by America’s laughing. In fact, had he not had a packet of things he had to discuss, Japan had no doubt that he would join in with all the laughter. After all, Italy was hardly professional in daily life, much less a world meeting. He talked about things that no-one cared for and wasted eight minutes and thirty-six seconds of Japan’s miserable life, gave a final smile to the rest of the countries as if he was a friend to them all, and then sat back down.

Should any of the nations ever need help, they would know not to go to Italy. Japan should have known better.

Soon it was America’s turn. He slid out from the table beside Japan, stood, and brought up his recent conflicts with Russia. The thing he wished to say did not take more than five minutes, and then it was Japan’s turn.  _ Japan _ , who sat helpless and pathetic in a wheelchair. 

Everyone looked at him expectantly. He scanned the crowd for some help, looked through their eyes for some forgiveness. Germany looked as though he understood the pain that Japan must’ve been going through, sympathetic at best, and Italy was as clueless as ever. Japan wheeled backwards from the table, sat up taller, and in a voice unlike his own he said, “I’ve nothing to discuss.”

America patted his back gently.

 

It’s decades later. Germany had invited Italy over for a get together, and Italy complained that he hadn’t seen Japan enough after the war. So be it. Make it a little party for the once-Axis gang.

He was able to graduate from the wheelchair a few years ago and now relies on a complicated pair of crutches that wrap around his elbows. The wounds on his front and on his back no longer hurt, and instead look like dark burn scars. He’s gotten a few scratches and bumps since then, some papercuts, some bad illnesses, but all in all Japan is healing. (It hasn’t been with the help of these two.)

He sits at a roundtable, delighted to give his arms a rest from having to support himself on those contraptions, and across from him Germany and Italy sit next to one another, talking amongst themselves in cheerful voices. Soccer.

“What do you think, Kiku?” Italy turns to Japan and lays his arms flat on the surface, as if he’s a cat.

Japan shrugs; he doesn’t know what the question is and doesn’t want to know, doesn’t care. Maybe during the forties, or even before then, he would have been delighted to jump into conversation, but seeing the same faces that he once kissed and touched and slept next to--seeing the same faces that abandoned him in his time of need when he had continued to fight in their wake--he can’t blame himself for remaining silent. Luckily Italy carries on conversation for him, and Japan takes a sip of his tea.

“I think Italy has a chance this year! Our soccer team is doing really well! Mexico’s got nothing on us,” he says, getting increasingly louder as if the volume of his voice will affect the outcome of the game. 

Germany offers no response to this, apparently just now aware of Japan’s silence in the matter. He leans forward, furrows his eyebrows. “Japan...no, Kiku. Are you alright?”

Japan is a man of his own. When confronted with the real, dire situations he doesn’t know the answers to, he will say one thing and mean another. His age makes it very easy for him to expertly manipulate his words, but even so he is unable to come up with a response to this.

In many ways, the man is very alright. America has made his economy boom. People in his country are thriving, producing amazing technology and coming up with hit TV shows. The skies are bluer lately, the fish taste better.

But here, in this space, surrounded by the scent of these people who left him behind when he needed them most, Japan is not alright. He is far from alright. Here’s Italy, now sitting up straight, expectantly waiting for an answer. Back then, Italy would have leaped over the table if he knew something was upsetting Japan and he would have peppered the older nation’s face in sweet kisses.  _ “Ve, do you need anything?”  _ He’d ask, clinging to his side like a koala. The concern from Italy alone would have made Japan feel better, but now, with Italy’s mouth slightly open and his brown eyes looking at him blankly, stupidly, Japan couldn’t feel more disgusted.

And Germany. Japan may have thrived on the attention of Germany. For the taller of the three it almost always seemed to be about Italy, Italy, Italy. Hardly ever would he ask if Japan was “alright”, and whenever he did, Japan would silently cherish the moment. Now, he feels cheated. 

“Tired from the trip,” he finally says.   
  


Months pass. Hours of excruciating physical therapy add up to Japan being able to walk with a cane, though he tries to manage without it because he doesn’t want to feel older than he is. 

His hand against the wall to support himself, Japan makes it over to the door of his humble abode. His boss is supposed to be visiting in a few hours to check up on his recovery, and Japan feels underdressed but he doesn’t want to keep the old man waiting. His body shakes when he balances himself to slide the door open, and when Italy comes crashing into him at full speed he slams into the ground and groans in pain.

“Kiku! Kiku! Ludwig and I are so, so, so sorry! It took so long to figure out why you were being all distant! But I think we figured it out now… even if it took us some years. Here, wait, ah, sorry,” Italy stammers as he tries to help Japan off of the floor, but the nation can help himself, thank you very much. He realized that he didn’t need the help of the other two a long time ago. When he’s on his feet again he politely waves off Italy’s apologies.

Germany is standing in the doorway, holding an envelope. He’s wearing his usual green garb, and Italy is wearing his usual blue--suddenly Japan feels overdressed in the company of them.

“Kiku, please accept this apology.” Germany bows down and holds the card out, which Japan takes gingerly into his hand. Italy is practically vibrating in excitement.

“Thank you, Italy. Germany. I will read this soon.” He doesn’t have the heart to face these two right now, he already mourned the death of their relationship when he was sobbing alone in agony. He wants them as gone as they were when Nagasaki was destroyed. Out of sight. Italy looks absolutely destroyed by the fact that Japan deliberately uses their formal names, but if Germany notices he doesn’t show it. He nods his blond head, grabs Italy by the elbow, and bids Japan goodbye.   
  


He doesn’t read the letter. Rather, he plugs a shredder into the wall and feeds the card into the machine, watching the paper separate into little strips. Maybe another day he’ll learn to forgive and forget, but war leaves its scars in cruel places.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have found any mistakes, grammatical or otherwise, please let me know. Comment if you enjoyed the fic or if you straight up hated it--authors thrive on the feedback of their readers.


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